Part 12

Nor think the match unevenly made, That of those beams in you do tarry, The glass to you but gives a shade, To me mine eyes the true shape carry; For such a thought most highly prized, Which ever hath Love’s yoke despised, Better than one captived perceiveth, Though he the lively form receiveth, The other sees it but disguised.

SONNETS.

THE dart, the beams, the sting, so strong I prove, Which my chief part doth pass through, parch, and tie, That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love, Wounded, inflamed, knit to the death, I die.

Hardened and cold, far from affection’s snare Was once my mind, my temper, and my life; While I that sight, desire, and vow forbare, Which to avoid, quench, lose, nought boasted strife.

Yet will not I grief, ashes, thraldom change For others’ ease, their fruit, or free estate; So brave a shot, dear fire, and beauty strange, Bid me pierce, burn, and bind, long time and late, And in my wounds, my flames, and bonds, I find A salve, fresh air, and bright contented mind.

* * * * *

VIRTUE, beauty, and speech, did strike, wound, charm, My heart, eyes, ears, with wonder, love, delight, First, second, last, did bind, enforce, and arm, His works, shows, suits, with wit, grace, and vows’ might,

Thus honour, liking, trust, much, far, and deep, Held, pierced, possessed, my judgment, sense, and will, Till wrongs, contempt, deceit, did grow, steal, creep, Bands, favour, faith, to break, defile, and kill,

Then grief, unkindness, proof, took, kindled, taught, Well-grounded, noble, due, spite, rage, disdain: But ah, alas! in vain my mind, sight, thought, Doth him, his face, his words, leave, shun, refrain. For nothing, time, nor place, can loose, quench, ease Mine own embracéd, sought, knot, fire, disease.

WOOING-STUFF.

FAINT amorist, what, dost thou think To taste Love’s honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour A world of sweet, and taste no sour? Dost thou ever think to enter Th’ Elysian fields, that dar’st not venture In Charon’s barge? a lover’s mind Must use to sail with every wind. He that loves and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee? ’tis to show it, That thy coldness makes her do it: Is she silent? is she mute? Silence fully grants thy suit: Doth she pout, and leave the room? Then she goes to bid thee come: Is she sick? why then be sure, She invites thee to the cure: Doth she cross thy suit with “No?” Tush, she loves to hear thee woo: Doth she call the faith of man In question? Nay, she loves thee than; And if e’er she makes a blot, She’s lost if that thou hit’st her not. He that after ten denials, Dares attempt no farther trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.

SONNETS

SINCE shunning pain, I ease can never find; Since bashful dread seeks where he knows me harmed; Since will is won, and stoppéd ears are charmed; Since force doth faint, and sight doth make me blind; Since loosing long, the faster still I bind; Since naked sense can conquer reason armed; Since heart, in chilling fear, with ice is warmed; In fine, since strife of thought but mars the mind, I yield, O Love, unto thy loathed yoke, Yet craving law of arms, whose rule doth teach, That, hardly used, who ever prison broke, In justice quit, of honour made no breach: Whereas, if I a grateful guardian have, Thou art my lord, and I thy vowéd slave.

When Love puffed up with rage of high disdain, Resolved to make me pattern of his might, Like foe, whose wits inclined to deadly spite, Would often kill, to breed more feeling pain; He would not, armed with beauty, only reign On those affects which easily yield to sight; But virtue sets so high, that reason’s light, For all his strife can only bondage gain: So that I live to pay a mortal fee, Dead palsy-sick of all my chiefest parts, Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters see, And can cry help with naught but groans and starts: Longing to have, having no wit to wish, To starving minds such is god Cupid’s dish.

SONG.

To the tune of “Non credo gia che piu infelice amante.”

THE nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

II.

Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish, But Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, complains her will was broken, But I, who daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

SONG.

To the tune of “Basciami vita mia.”

SLEEP, baby mine, Desire’s nurse, Beauty, singeth; Thy cries, O baby, set mine head on aching: The babe cries, “’Way, thy love doth keep me waking.”

Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle bringeth Unto my children alway good rest taking: The babe cries, “Way, thy love doth keep me waking.”

Since, baby mine, from me thy watching springeth, Sleep then a little, pap Content is making; The babe cries, “Nay, for that abide I waking.”

THE scourge of life, and death’s extreme disgrace; The smoke of hell, the monster calléd Pain: Long shamed to be accursed in every place, By them who of his rude resort complain; Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught, His ugly evil in others’ good to hide; Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide; And so by privilege of sacred seat, A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns, He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great, Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains. Ah, saucy Pain, let not thy terror last, More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.

II.

Woe! woe to me, on me return the smart: My burning tongue hath bred my mistress pain? For oft in pain, to pain my painful heart, With her due praise did of my state complain. I praised her eyes, whom never chance doth move; Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet; Her milken breasts, the nurse of child-like love; Her legs, O legs! her aye well-stepping feet: Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire, (First sealing up my heart as prey of his) He flies to her, and, boldened with desire, Her face, this age’s praise, the thief doth kiss. O Pain! I now recant the praise I gave, And swear she is not worthy thee to have.

III.